Silent All These Years
by ScaryElwes
Summary: Brittany tries not to let it get to her. It's only fair, for Santana. But she can only stay silent for so long. Future Fic.


**A/N: This was originally meant to be a drabble, no longer than 600 words or so. I got so caught up in fluff though, damn it. Hopefully publishing this will help ease my intense love-hate relationship with Glee. Enjoy, fellow Brittana shippers.**

**Disclaimer: Glee is and never will be mine. Title credit goes to the goddess that is Tori Amos.**

**Silent All These Years**

Brittany can't find it in herself to speak when she opens the door. Because there she stands, huddled over, quivering, shiny tear tracks staining her cheeks. The familiarity of the sight nearly bowls her over.

"Brit," Santana speaks through her trembling lips, chattering teeth. The rainfall is barely heavier than a light sprinkle, yet she clings to her too-small hoodie like it's a lifeline.

"Brittany, please…"

And it's when she takes a small step forward when Brittany sees the cut. Shallow but bleeding, right underneath the Latina's left eye, thrown into ghastly shadow by the naked porch light bulb.

And so Brittany steps aside, closing and locking the door slowly once Santana has rushed in. She takes her time closing the deadbolt, waiting until that comforting _click_ has resonated throughout the hall. She's only putting off the inevitable, savoring the short seconds beforehand like they're candy.

Brittany was, and still is, a simple girl. Hell, she barely made it through college. But she knows what's to come. What _will _happen in only a few short minutes. You'd have to be blind not to see it.

Once Brit has turned around Santana is pulling at her hand, already trying to lead her back to the bedroom, the path she knows so well despite the fact she's never spent more than twenty-four hours in this tiny house. But the blonde stands her ground, refusing to budge. When Santana gives her an incredulous look, she simply pushes her hand away and rips down the zipper of the pitiful hoodie.

Beneath the thin velvet material is a skimpy black tank top, delicate, flimsy. Even more pathetic than the stupid hoodie. But it's not the top that startles Brittany so much. It's the bruises. They're everywhere; worse than she's ever seen.

Without a word, Brittany gently guides Santana to the carpet, and then strips her completely. And the brunette allows her, her body sitting limply as fabric after fabric is peeled off her aching body. Brittany then sits back on her heels, drinking the girl in.

And she tries her hardest to see her beauty, the bold perfection that she loves so much. But she can't. It's maimed, tainted. Covered in painful-looking bruises at her shoulders, arms, stomach, thighs, shins… They blossom like grotesque little flowers, blooming all over her curves as the porch light shines through the window and casts an eerie yellow glow on them.

Santana merely lays there, her breathing surprisingly calm. She watches Brittany watching her, gauging every little emotion that flickers across the kneeling girl's face. Her old and fresh wounds ache and throb, yet her body feels strangely deprived, hungry. The way she always feels when she visits the blonde in this condition.

Scared. Lonely. Simply wanting to be wanted, but not as a fucking human punching bag. The want to be cherished, _loved_.

And she acts on this want, when Brittany has been staring at her too long and that ghost-like sadness infects her blue eyes. She'd promised herself that she'd never let that look grace Brittany ever again. So she pulls her down by the shirt collar and kisses her, hard.

And very soon, like the many times before this one, they lose themselves in each other, again and again. Brittany going gentle, so as not to disturb the bruises, and Santana going rough, taking out every emotion that's been boiling inside of her until they are both left exhausted.

Brittany wraps her arms around the Latina's waist almost immediately after they collapse, latching her body to hers. Because like before, she knows what will happen next. Santana will lie next to her for a few breathless minutes, then sit up and compose herself. Then she'll say something along the lines of _I've got to go, he's already pissed enough as it is_, or, _If he finds out I'm here again, he'll fucking kill me, I mean it Brit_. And then she'll stand up, having somehow magically redressed, and walk right out of Brittany's life for another few weeks, until it happens all over again.

Brittany can't let that happen again. This time, she knows it'll kill her.

And sure enough, Santana begins to untangle herself from Brittany's limbs. If she tried hard enough, Brit is sure she'd find the words forming in her mocha eyes.

But as the brunette opens her mouth, Brittany cuts her off.

She speaks, for what feels like the first time in years.

"No," Brittany musters, defiance only slightly evident in her small voice. But then she grips Santana's hand, and it fuels her, empowers her to say her next words.

"You're staying here with me. I'm not going to lose you all over again. I love you too much, Santana."

And then the tears start to flow, faster and harder than she'd anticipated, but she continues.

"I am not just going to sit here while you go back to him, only to have him hurt you. He is _nothing_ to me, or you. He never deserved you. But I do. And…and, I don't care what you think, or what you want…because I'm never going to let you go, ever again. Ever."

She lost some of her fire near the end, and she can feel it. But Brittany doesn't care. Because Santana is looking at her now, like she used to, back when it was just the two of them and Cheerio uniforms and linked pinkies and making out in bed and singing their hearts out to each other. _Them_.

And finally, Brittany has broken her silence.

So Brittany takes the hand that she is already holding, and pulls the damned ring off of Santana's finger, for good this time.

She won't need it anymore.

**Fin.**


End file.
